Can't pretend
by aliena wyvern
Summary: What if Allan-A-Dale had been a woman? Dark!AU for season 2 and 3.


**This idea came while watching Game of Thrones and the Pillars of the Earth. Dark content ahead, because in during Middle Age, lowborn women were treated like trash. I tried to make it realistic, so it's obviously much darker than the show, and there is some mature and disturbing content. The ending is happy, though (sort of).**  
 **AU for season 2 and 3.  
** **Warning: Very dubious consent and heavy angst. Don't like, don't read.  
**

 **Allan is a girl in this, I renamed her Alayne (from Alayne Stone). The facecaim is Natalie Dormer. I made a visual that you can find on my Tumblr: alienawyvernfanfiction dot tumblr dot com/image/136318851367  
**

 **This will be in two or three parts, part 2 is currently being written.**

 **English is not my first language so all the mistakes you notice are mine.**

Can't pretend

 _Love, I have wounds,_  
 _Only you can mend,_  
 _You can mend._  
 _I guess that's love,_  
 _I can't pretend,_  
 _I can't pretend._

 _Feel, my skin is rough,_  
 _But it can be cleansed,_  
 _It can be cleansed._  
 _And my arms are tough,_  
 _But they can be bent,_  
 _They can be bent._

 _And I wanna fight,_  
 _But I can't contend._  
 _I guess that's love,_  
 _I can't pretend,_  
 _I can't pretend._

 _Oh, feel our bodies grow,_  
 _And our souls they blend._  
 _Yeah love I hope you know,_  
 _How much my heart depends._

 _But I guess that's love_  
 _I can't pretend,_  
 _I can't pretend._  
 _I guess that's love_  
 _I can't pretend,_  
 _I can't pretend._

 _Tom Odell, "Can't pretend"_

When it happens for the first time, Summer is coming to its end.

She is waiting in the backroom of Nottingham's tavern, fingers dusty from the white chalk cross she drew on the front pillar, and she is slightly sweating. She puts it on the account of the weather, because it is too hot outside, but the truth is that she is terrified, and ashamed, and miserably fails to convince herself otherwise. It's her fault, after all. She loves gambling too much.  
And now, she is afraid to get caught by Robin and the gand. Her _friends_. The only friends she ever had, who will likely slaughter her if her treachery is discovered. And she is afraid, too, that her new employer might be disappointed because clearly, she has nothing to tell him.

As it turns out, she is right.

He is _not_ pleased.  
Because he has been witty enough to guess by himself the few informations she is disposed to give, and she is not depraved enough to tell him that Robin's spy at the castle has been Lady Marian all along. She may not be the brightest person in the world, but she knows it will only make things worse. He would kill her on the spot, then go after the latter Sheriff's daugther, and _God_ knows what would happen. She knows better than to enrage him more than he already is.  
He is supposed to be in love with _her_ , after all, the beautiful lady Marian with wide blue eyes and coppery auburn hair.

Besides, she _needs_ his money.

So when he snarls at her to lie down and spread her legs, a compensation for the _waste_ of his _precious_ time, she does as she is told.

She is no maiden, that would have been a miracle with the life she has lived until now, but he is too big, to strong and uncaring, and it's been too long, and she is not ready, and she does not really want this. But it could have been worse. It could have been _Vasey_. Vasey who takes no pleasure into _bedding_ women, but into _torturing_ them.

 _Marian_ , he sighs as he calms down, and somehow it hurts more than having him inside her.

Her name isn't Marian. Her name is _Alayne_. _Alayne-A-Dale_.

He knows it. But it is not as if he cared.  
He does not want her.  
Not her.  
 _Never_ her, the filthy, skinny little thief. She is no more than a tool, a stray of dirt on his boot.

She does not know why it makes her a little sad. He must be miserable, if he has to turn to _outlaws_ like her, the very image of what he _despises_ and wants to see _destroyed_ , to fulfill his most natural desires.  
Does it makes her someone special?  
Probably not.  
He needs a _body_ , and she just happens to be here, at his mercy.  
She submits.  
What else can she do?

She lies still, tries to forget about the hard, dusty floor digging in her back, and thinks about the cold, reassuring touch of the money in her hands while he pushes between her legs. And her fists clenches in the dirt as he finishes, panting, and rolls himself off her.

Then he leaves, deliberatly avoiding to look at her, as if nothing happened.  
She _feels_ like a whore. Bought and used, again and again and again.  
But is she really better than that, anyway?  
She has _fucked_ her way through life. She has already been through this. Sold herself, sold her body, sold _others_.

Robin has given her something more, a goal, some sense in her meaningless life. But in the end, he has not come to her rescue when she was being tortured, in her cell in Nottingham Castle. Too _busy_ , perhaps.  
So she takes the bargain and sells the last remaining part of herself that has not been sold yet. Her _soul_. She has a deal with the Devil, a Devil in black leather with burning blue eyes.

Gisborne's seed is still drying on her thigs, sticking to her trousers as she exits the tavern. She thinks of Annie, the kitchen maid, and Seth, the child he refused to acknowledge and left in the woods to die, and she squeezes her fingers so hard around her payment that the skin brokes. She bleeds, red drops on the dry floor, that slowly turns to mud.

She uses some part of the gold to buy herbs from Mathilda. The ones that keep one a flat belly. It is not the first time she uses them.  
The healer looks at her, sees the careful way she walks, and the look on her face, and of course she _knows_ , and Alayne knows that she knows.  
 _My poor girl_ , she sighs, but Alayne does not want her pity.  
 _Don't tell Robin_ , she pleads, and the woman nods, comprehensive.

She suddenly does not want to return to the forest. To her friends. She is not ready to face them. Not yet. Not while she still feels _him_ inside of her.  
A _whore_. A whore and now a _spy_.  
She decides that she cannot bring the gold, _his_ gold, in the same place as her friends, the ones who trust her. The ones she betrayed, and will betray again. The coins are burning her skin through her clothes.  
She drinks them at the tavern.

When she comes back, Robin and the gang greet her with joy, and she feels sick. They do not really care about what she has been doing in town.  
Count Friedrich is _so_ much more important.  
So she smiles and fakes enthusiasm at Locksley's plan.

She is _strong._ Stronger than this. She can manage. She _has to_.  
She has taken Gisborne's money and spent it. She does not need to go back to him. She is _free_. She can do as she pleases.

But Alayne is, always has been, and will always be a _coward_ , despite all her bragging. Her words, her bravery is nothing but dust thrown into the wind. She knows it, and blames herself. But she cannot help it.

So she becomes a spy, and she wonders how she can still look at Robin or Marian or Much or the others in the eyes.

She does nonetheless.

* * *

Their encounters are always short, half an hour, maybe.

She tells him what he wants to hear, lets him have his way with her, gets paid afterwards. They never touch, never take off their clothes. His eyes are always closed. It does not feel good, but it does not feel bad either. She gets used to it.  
It is almost casual. A _routine_ , really. And it scares her because it is her first long lasting relationship with someone, even if twisted and corrupted. With _him_ of all people.

She starts to wonder what it would feel like, to be touched by him without his leather gloves. To be able to look at him in the eyes.  
Sometimes, she wants to do silly things like wrap her legs around his waist or stroke his hair or move her hips in rhythm with his. She does not, though.  
He terrifies her. And she cannot allow herself to think about him like that. Too dangerous.  
Gisborne does not want her, or maybe just what is between her legs, and he does not even ask her to fake anything. To pretend. He lets her keep this last remain of her dignity.

Once, though, he does something. Or maybe he does not. She does not know what it is, what happens, and he probably does not do it on purpose, but there is a _spark_. Something that shakes her to the core. Something that lasts less than a second, something that she might have imagined, but that she wants again. Because it has felt _good_. As if a string, that each of his thrusts inside her had tightened, had finally snapped.  
She wonders what is was.  
What is wrong with her. Her _body_.  
She wonders if it is right. To want it. Want more.  
She wonders if a whore is supposed to feel the same.  
If it is possible, not to fake.  
 _She never gets any answer._

 _Pleasure in coupling is sinful_ , the Priest at the church says.

They are _fucking_ , here is the fact.  
Or, more precisely, _he_ is fucking _her_ , and that is all she needs to know.  
She lays back and wonders why it is more and more difficult to think about the forest and the money and her friends and more and more easy to think of _him_ , _inside_ , _above_ , _around_ her, to be so aware of his weight, of the leathery scent of his sweat and of the solid strength of his grip.

She hides her bruises (from the floor or the wall, never from his hands, because he would not hurt Marian, and in these moments, Alayne _is_ Marian) under her clothes, and smiles. Always smiles. To him, to her friends, to the people they help, who usually smile back.  
Smiling women are well appreciated. A pity Gisborne does not seem to remark it. He himself does not smile a lot. And when he does, he looks like it pains him.

* * *

It changes, of course, when she moves into Locksley Manor.

When her treachery leaves her with nothing but the clothes on her back and a aching heart. Of course, the gang did not understand. It would have been foolish, to hope so. Not that she ever did. She is not _that_ stupid.  
She does not seek forgiveness where there will be none.

Instead, she turns to Gisborne. She has helped him enough. His turn, now.  
And he does.

That is rather unexpected.

Maybe he is in a good mood. Maybe he is impressed because she has managed to knock out three of his guards by herself to sneak inside the house. Maybe he sees where his interest lies.  
He does not tell her.  
But he orders her a bath and has her feed and clothed and it is actually the first time in her life someone treats her like that. And she might have cried of relief and gratitude, had she been anyone else.  
Alayne A-Dale does not cry. Even for her brother, she did not. Tom, the brother that Gisborne _killed_. She sometimes forget that. She tries not to wonder, what he might think of her now.

That is also the first time she sees the Master-at-Arms naked. Well, _half_ -naked, he's still got his breeches and boots on, but _God damn her_.  
The man looks like one of those beautiful statues one can see at the church. His skin is like marble, pale and smooth. Dark hair, dark clothes, and it looks like snow. Under his gloves, he's got long, elegant fingers. And everything about him, his neck, the line of his shoulders, the large expanse of his chest, his firm, sculpted belly, and the bulging muscles on his arms, everything seems shaped by an artist. One of those carvers she has seen at Westminster Abbey, long ago, when she was nothing but a scraggly teen, not a child anymore but not a woman yet, begging for coins and scraps.  
She wonders what is this burning heat rising under her stomach, and decides it's nothing at all.

 _Lust is sinful_ , says the Priest.

At least, she stops living in a lie, and she avoids thinking about her now former friends, hungry, cold and dirty in the forest. She pretends it does not bother her.  
 _It does_.  
But she is clean, and has a full belly and a roof above her head. No one can ask more than that.

* * *

The Sheriff finds her useful.  
 _Leper, leper, leper,_ _remember_ , _Gisborne, lepers, all of them_ , he constantly mutters, but at least he acknowledges her value. She avoids him as much as she can, because deep down she hates him for what he did, for what he does everyday, and for what he will do as long as someone does not murder him on his sleep, but since he is Gisborne's master as much as the leather-clad knight is _hers_ , she has to deal with him, if not daily, at least several times a week.

The servants, the kitchen maids, the guards, the villagers, they call her _Gisborne's girl_. Gisborne's _whore_ , when they think she cannot hear them. And they start to fear her, because suddenly, the insulting title gives her _power_. More than she ever had. She would be lying if she said that she does not enjoy it. Finally, she is becoming _someone_.

* * *

Marian does her best to ignore her and she cannot blame her. But she will not tell anything about her. The _Nightwachman_ in particular. That girl is _precious_. Well, not particularly to Alayne, but to Robin and the gang. She owes them that.  
Even if sometimes, she wants to slap her. Because she treats Gisborne like trash.  
It should not annoy her, he kind of deserves it, but it does.

Love is _blindness_. That is why Alayne does not want and does not need it. Guy looks like a kicked puppy everytime he fails at wooing Marian, yet he always comes back to her. The girl is toying with him. Can't he see that?  
 _A clue? No.  
_ Even _Vasey_ has seen it. _  
And she is not even plucked_ , Alayne thinks bitterly. What will it be, then, when the deed is done and the Lady of Knighton rid of her embarrassing and so valuable _flower_?  
 _And you replaced_ , the sarcastic little voice in her mind says.  
She ignores it.

* * *

While she is at Locksley, so close to him that her bedroll is right under his living quarters, it does not take her long to realize that Gisborne is an abuser only because he is constantly abused himself. He does not know how to _ask_ , he just knows how to _take_ , because people constantly _take_ from him.

Everytime something goes wrong, the Sheriff evacuates his frustration on him, and seems to take _pleasure_ in it, because he does not defend himself. Sometimes, she sees it with her own eyes, sometimes he comes home with nasty bruises.  
His passivity appalls her. He could break the old man with a press of his fingers, but chooses to endure the beatings instead, still as a ragdoll.

At least, he does not beat her in retaliation.  
Instead, he takes her to bed, and pounds her into the mattress, hands clenched on the headboard, until he slumps in exhaustion. And she lies still and opens her thigs wide for him, almost naturally, like a good servant for her master.  
He is almost welcome, now.  
Sometimes, he still has her in the barn or the kitchens, but now, most of the time, there is a soft sheet under her back, or her belly, or whatever pleases him. _That_ is a refreshing change.

And she is usually _naked_.  
That, too, is new.  
Thereis no need to rush things now.  
The first time, he tears her clothes from her body, so fast she does not have any time to realize exactly what he is doing, throws his jacket and shirt on the floor, pushes her on her back, unlaces his breeches, and pushes inside of her without warning. Leather still covers his long legs, but the sliding of the bare skin of his chest against her own feels strangely exhilarating.  
He is rough and needy, and kicks her out as soon as he is finished, barely covered by the tattered remains of her shirt, but she cannot help but smile and does not know why.

It happens a lot. Three or for times a week, sometimes more. When Robin has been particularly nasty, when the peasants are not cooperative, when Marian rejects him, or simply when he is bored and has nothing else to do.  
There are gossips. It does not bother her as much as it should.

Sometimes, he falls asleep right on her, a heavy but not unpleasant weight, and she does not move until he wakes and orders her to leave.  
He is a bad sleeper, she discovers. Worse than Robin, actually.  
One night he will just shift relentlessly, muttering meaningless things in french.  
The next one, he will wake up with a start, covered in sweat and gasping for air, as vulnerable as a child.  
Some other nights, he will not sleep at all.  
 _Maman_ , he often calls during his nightmares. It means _Mommy_. Gisborne has, or had a mother. Alayne finds it strangely endearing. She almost never had one herself.  
She tries her best to sooth him, sings the only lullaby she remembers from her mother, strokes his hair, coaxes him with some baby-talk when she is sure he cannot hear her.  
These are the only moment she can touch him properly. His hair feels like liquid silk under her fingers. He is soft, when he sleeps. His mouth pouts and it makes him look like a little boy.  
She wonders how many people have seen him like that, so defenseless that she could have killed him a thousand times. She is probably the only one.

Oh, _well._

He trusts her. He should not.

* * *

There comes a day were the money from the taxes disappears in the forest, again, and Vasey punches Guy, several time. In the stomach. In the face. Where it hurt.

Alayne is there, and watches. As a faithful, indifferent servant. She listens to her master's muffled cries of pain, and it makes her skin crawls. She wants to tear the old man off his Second-in-command, and strangle him with her bare hands. But she does not move, only cringes to every blow.  
When the Sheriff's fist connects with the knight's cheekbone, she swears she hears it crack. He has got a ring on his middle finger, and the skin splits and bleeds.  
She wants to scream. Wants Gisborne to fight, to defend himself, but he does not.

Vasey dismisses them, and they ride to Locksely Manor, and he does not make a sound, but she sees his clenched jaw, the sweat on his brow and the tightness of his hold on the horse's reins, and she knows that he suffers, but is too proud to let it show.

She joins him in his bedroom later in the evening, with rags and a cup of water, forces him to take off his jacket and shift, cleans the cut under his eye, rubs with oil his belly where a purple bruise is forming.  
She does not say a word.  
She does not have to.  
There is nothing more to say.

She unlaces her shift, looses her breeches, then pushes on his back on the bed, opens his leather pants, fondles him just enough for him to get hard, stradles him and takes him inside of her. She cradles him between her thigs, riding him slowly, gently.  
She is clumsy, awkward, unsure of what she has to do. She is used to _get fucked_. Not to _fuck_. But this time, she _is_ fucking him, and he is letting her, and it feels almost good. Not wonderful, but _good_. _Easy._

She has never felt so powerful in all her life.

He is surprisingly passive and his eyes are open wide. They're _blue_. A peculiar shade that she has never seen anywhere else.  
His fists clench on the sheets. He is fighting. Oh, he is fighting against himself. She should be scared, afraid of the moment he might break. But she is not.  
She has seen him, the real _him_ and his weaknesses. In the end, he is not the Devil. The Devil is bald and greedy and vicious and lives at the castle. The Priest can say what he wants. What he preaches against is right under his nose.  
Gisborne is just a _man_.  
A man who cannot help but hurt the people around him. Not that he wants it, of course. He tries. He really tries.

But in the end, he gives up, just when her thigs start to burn from exhaustion and her arms braced on the mattress above his shoulders start to shake. His hands reach for her swaying hips, grip them, hold them tightly. He sets the pace, gently.  
His eyes never leave hers, and perhaps, this time, he sees her, really sees her, _Alayne_ , skinny Alayne with her small breasts and prominent bones and flat curves and willowy limbs.  
Not ugly, not beautiful, not _Marian_ , and it does not seem to repulse him.

He rocks his hips lazily against hers, and she gasps, mouth open and head thrown back and...  
 _Oh._  
There it is.  
It happens again. And again. And again. And again. The _spark_.

Gisborne smirks. Takes control. Comes inside of her, arching his back and clenching his jaw, and he is _beautiful_ beneath her, and she waits until he is finished to roll over and try to catch her breath.  
 _Better?_ she inquires while she reaches for her shift on the floor.  
 _Better_ , he agrees reluctantly.  
He pauses.  
 _Thank you_ , he says, and his voice sounds almost childish.  
 _You're welcome_ , she answers.  
She bends forward and kisses his forehead. Realizes what she has just done, blushes and flees. She slips out of his room, lets herself sink in her own bedroll. It is strangely cold.

* * *

Things are better after that.

She checks the bruise on his cheekbone in the morning, and he does not say anything, but there are strawberries in her gruel bowl at breakfeast.

A few days later, he takes her to the training yard, throws a sword at her and tells her to defend herself. The blade is too heavy, he is not exactly a patient teacher, and she aches all over afterwards, but after a week, she at least knows how to handle it without letting it fall on her own feet.

However, she bests him with a bow. He pouts for hours, but she is not punished.

He kisses her cheek, once. It tingles for days afterwards.

He is baffled to learn that she can read and write. She cannot say she is proud of it. She has whored herself to the schoolmaster to benefit from his knowledge, but of course, she does not tell Gisborne _that_.

He teaches her bits and pieces of french. _Bonjour_ and _Au revoir_ and _Merci_ and _S'il vous plaît_ and _À genoux, manants_ and _Où est l'argent des impôts?_  
He laughs at her awful pronunciation, but it is quite a beautiful laugh. It makes him look younger. Happier.  
She writes all the sentences down on a parchment she hides under her mattress. It might be useful, later.

He no longer moans Marian's name when they are in bed together.

* * *

One day, the Sheriff summons them to the castle.  
 _Them._  
Not just _him_.  
He is asking for _her_ , specifically.

Gisborne looks worried, and is biting his lower lip as he rides, but he does not say anything. Fear curls in her belly like a snake, and she wants to scream and run and go back to Sherwood Forest. Better confront her former friends and face their wrath. Vasey frightens her more than them.  
But if she does this, Guy will take the blame. And she is quite tired of taking care of his bruises.

 _I hope your leper minion is eager to prove herself useful_ , the bald man says in manner of greeting, and she does not like _at all_ the way he looks at her.

As it turns out, Nottingham Castle has a guest. Some rich nobleman from Wales. An Earl, or something like that. It does not really matter. But the man is bored and wants some entertainment. And the Sheriff is more than eager to please him.  
This Black Knights business, certainly.

 _No_ , Gisborne says.  
Vasey arches her brow.  
 _Her, or Lady Marian_ , he replies, and Guy shudders.  
 _I'll do it,_ Alayne sighs.  
She cannot argue against _this_.  
Gisborne gives her an apologetic look as Vasey smiles and congratulates her.

He orders her a bath, praises her body as she curls on herself in the water, wishing him gone and not watching her as she scrubs herself, because he just wants her to feel ill-at-ease. Naked women do not excite him. Frightened women, on the other hand...  
His gaze feels like slugs crwaling on her skin, and she cannot stop shivering even if the tub is warm.

He has her tucked into a dress, _a fucking dress_ , complains about her far too short hair. She has had them cut when she was a child, to look like her brother. Her _dead_ brother. Vasey killed him. Not Guy. Guy is just a henchman.  
And now, it is her turn to execute his sick orders.

 _Do not disappoint me_ , he hisses in her ear as he pushes her in his guest's room. His grip on her arm is too tight and painful, his nails digging in her skin.  
She feels like a lamb walking to slaughter, as in the text the Priest commented upon at the mass, the other day.  
 _Forgive me, Lord, for I am about to sin._  
According to him, whores go to Hell. As reluctant to their tasks as they can be.

Gisborne has gone back to Locksley, and she could hardly miss the disgusted look on his face as he rode away. Because of her or Vasey, she does not know. Perhaps he is with Lady Marian, now. Lady Marian, so pure and so beautiful, who will not, thanks to her, Alayne A-Dale, be handed over to some lecherous noble.  
Is the girl and her damned maidenhood worth it?  
Not sure.  
Robin, or Guy, whoever it will be, better enjoys his wedding night.

Sometimes, Alayne regrets the fact that she is not a highborn lady. Someone who _matters_.

The nobleman in question is fat, greasy, and looks at her like a meal. She smiles, curtsies, cooes like a stupid bird. Giggles and hopes he does not see the lying look in her eyes.  
When he rips her bodice apart, gropes her chest with clumsy, chubby hands, it takes her all her good will not to cry.  
She tries to think of Gisborne as she uses her hands, her mouth, her body to please him, but she cannot. The pictures will not come. The Earl is heavy, fat, his breath is foul, his teeth rotten, his greasy skin smells of chamber pot, and he has the smallest dick she has ever had the misfortune to see. Nothing, _nothing_ like Guy.  
She lies beneath him and smiles.

He does not last long and falls asleep as soon as he rolls off her, snoring, slumped like a giant slug beside her. Alayne sits, fights back nausea as she wipes his seed to the last drop on her trembling thigs, hastens back her dress and exits the room.  
Vasey is at the door, lurking. Perhaps he has been there the entire time.  
 _Good girl_ , he says and pats her hair. _Now out of my sight._

She waits until she is out of Nottingham to dismount her horse, fall on her hands and knees and retch in the pit alongside the road. She fights back the urge to ride away and disappear in the night, because there is no way Gisborne takes her back after _that_ , filthy as she is.  
It hurts.  
It should not but the the fact is, it hurts.  
But she has nowhere to go.

When she reaches Locksley Manor, all the lights are out. She locks her horse back in the farm, tiptoes through the house to her bedroll, lets herself curl on it and cries, muffling her wrecked sobs on the straw-stuffed mattress.

Heavy footsteps echoes in the stairs, footsteps that are unmistakenly his, and she wishes the earth would split open and swallow her whole. He hates weakness, and she _is_ being weak. He's going to drag her out of her bed and throw her outside in the cold. Or, at least, tell her to _shut up_.

Gisborne tucks her under the covers and sits on the mattress. His heavy weight makes it creak. He strokes her hair. Without his gloves on.  
 _Hush_ , he whispers, and then lies down, flat against her, burying his face between her shoulder blades, his arm around her shoulder. He kisses her nape and lulls her to sleep, rocking her slowly as she is surrounded by the heat that seeps through his clothes.

He is gone when she wakes in the morning, but the place where he has been is still warm.

* * *

 _Master Guy has ordered you a bath_ , Thornton says when she manages to drag herself to the kitchen.  
He hands her a steaming bowl without a word, and she smells the familiar scent of the herbs in the infusion, and thanks God. Or whoever has had this thoughtfulness.  
She sips it too quickly and coughs, tears welling in her eyes once again, because it is hot and the taste is bitter and her throat still sore.

Thornton pats her back and does not ask any question, even if she knows that he can see her red, puffy eyes. And probably the angry, purple bruises that adornate her neck and collarbones.  
 _It wasn't him_ , she says once she able to breathe again correctly, before the old man makes any false deduction.  
 _Of course_ , he says.  
She does not know if he means it or if he is just pities her. He does not like her, he does not hate her. He ignores her most of the time, and might be resentful because she betrayed Robin.  
He tolerates her, as much as he tolerates Gisborne. He is a good steward, faithful to his duty. That is all.  
Then again, Thornton probably knows Guy better than she does. Perhaps she did not even had to justify anything.  
A bit late now.

She slides in the hot water and scrubs herself until her skin is red and aching. She cannot help but feel. It seems that the fat man has crept under the epiderm like salt powdered on an open wound, and she is almost ready to skin herself if it means getting rid of the sensation. It feels like she is never going to be clean again. Filthy forever. As if she had not been enough already.  
The bath lessens the ache in her groin and chest, but her whole body is sore, and the humiliation burns even more than that.

She wants to go back to the castle with a dagger, perhaps Gisborne's incurved one, and she wants to castrate the Earl and kill the Sheriff.  
Of course, she will do no such foolish thing. She does not want to get hanged.  
Like _Tom_.  
Her brother, who has been looking at her with cold, unseeing, accusing eyes in a blue face, sticking his tongue out just as he used to do when they were children. And happy, and him not dead and her not a traitor and some bully's henchwoman.  
She does not want to look like that.

Which is why she swallows her pride and her pain and steps out of the bath. She borrows a scarf from one of the kitchen maids and threatens her to tell Guy that she has been seen stealing bread in the cellar if she gossips. The girl is terrified by the threat, and Alayne enjoys it.

Shegoes to take care of the horses as if nothing ever happened.  
Brushing the animal's back is incredibly soothing. It is quiet, unmoving. Gentle. Unlike so many things in this world.  
Sometimes, she envies the horses. They do not know how to lie, they do not know how to betray. They do not know. That is all.  
Sometimes, Alayne wonders if God Almighty might not have given the domination on Earth to the wrong specy.

She hears Gisborne coming back, his mount's clogs slamming heavily on the road, and she hides behind her stall's wall while he puts his horse back in the stable and prays that he does not see her.  
He does not.  
She hears him inquire Thornton about her. The old man does not know. Bless him.  
Alayne buries her face in the mare's soft mane and cries.

She does not come to Guy's bed that night. Nor the night after. And nor the one that comes after.

He does not even seem to mind.  
Instead, he barely acknowledges her. Barks his orders, shuts himself like a seashell, acts as if he did not know her. As if they had never been... _something_.  
Whatever it was.

It is almost as if she had become a ghost. She does her duties, wakes, eat, drinks, sleeps. Tries to forget about the lingering hollowness in her chest.

Before going to bed, she reads the sentences in french that he has taught her, and wonders how _heartache_ is said in this language.

She misses him.

* * *

It lasts for weeks.

At least, Robin is unusually quiet. _That_ is resting.

Her moonblood is late. She waits, to be sure, and it definitely is. Apparently, herbs can be tricky.  
She does not panic. She knows how to do, before her belly begins to swell.  
She almost does not do it, though. Because the child could be the Earl's as much as it could be Gisborne's. Of that, she cannot be sure. And there is, briefly, in her mind, the picture of a beautiful dark haired boy with blue eyes.  
Then she remembers Annie the kitchen maid and the boy, _Seth_ , and the Earl and his foul breath and greasy hands, and she knows that she cannot take the risk.

Alayne goes horse riding in the forest. The ground is rough, irregular, screened with traitorous holes, and the wind sings in her hair as she gallops through the trees, so fast that she almost falls from her saddle a dozen times.  
When she comes back, all her lower half and back is sore and aching, but she bleeds heavily two days later. It seems that somehow, there _is_ a justice.

All is back to normal.

She will be _fine_. She _will_ be. She _has_ to be.

* * *

Of course, it does not work like that.  
Sir Edward chooses that particular period to get himself murdered. The idiot. It could not be that simple, could it?  
Not that it bothers her because she barely knew the old man. But Marian _mourns_ and Marian _weeps_ and Marian is _heartbroken_ and Marian _flees_ and Marian is _lost,_ and so is _Guy_. Alayne wonders when he finally will tire of perpetual rejection.

 _She is gone. She isn't coming back. Move on_ , Vasey says, and for once she quite agrees with him. Lady _Holier-Than-Thou_ is gone and does not care about anything but her precious Robin. But Gisborne does not know that, or does not want to see it.  
 _Love is blindness, lust is sinful_ , but Alayne wants to slap the girl and scream at her and shake her, drag her back to Nottingham by her beautiful hair and make her understand, make her _see_.  
Oh dear, what a mess.

* * *

The whole debacle with Carter does not make it easier, nor does the near-destruction of Nottingham by Prince John's men. Because it forces Alayne to admit a few facts that she would have rather kept in oblivion.

Marian kisses Guy.  
 _That_ is something that Alayne knew would happen one day. People in love kiss. Gisborne is in love with Marian. Gisborne is supposed to kiss Marian. No problem with that. He has been craving for this damn kiss for so long that he, sort of, deserves it.  
The fact is, that it is Marian who kisses Guy, not Guy who kisses Marian. No rejection, no fallacious pretexts this time. She kisses Guy, and he is more than eager to reciprocate.  
Alayne, though, would have prefered to be elsewhere, where she cannot see them.  
Because, for them, in this moment, she does not exist.  
Because, despite the fact that they seem to have forgotten about her very existence, she _is_ there, watching.  
Because she cannot help but think about how she would feel if she was in Marian's place. And she does not know. It must feel good, because the girl's cheeks are flushed and she is panting against Guy's mouth, and her arms are clutching his head and shoulders as if she wanted to melt against him, _into him_.  
They are beautiful together. Marian and Guy are beautiful. Even the sound of their names. Guy and Marian. Marian and Guy. It sounds so much better that _Alayne and Guy_.  
 _Envy is one of the Seven Deadly Sins,_ the Priest said once _._ She understands why, now. It hurts. It makes her want to take... _something_ in her hands and tear it apart with her nails (she tries not to think about Marian's beautiful eyes and hair, but it is difficult).

Later, she realizes that this kiss was only a way to distract Gisborne and give some time to the outlaws to cause even more chaos, and it makes her want to scream and slap the girl. Because, now, Guy _hopes_ , once again, and this hope is based on a filthy lie. He hopes, and hopes, and hopes, even as his marriage proposal when Nottingham is on the verge of destruction does not get any answer.  
He is too stubborn for his own good. Alayne is not. She knows when it is time for her to give up on something. She has no hope for herself.  
 _Marian needs time_ , he says, blue eyes shining with happiness, and she holds back a painful laugh.

It makes her feel sick.

* * *

Alayne hates these periodes of uncertainty.  
Because, to make thing even more complicated, Guy is frustrated and constantly on the edge, and seems to remember about her very existence at this moment when he needs comfort. Suddenly, she must not look so repulsive anymore.  
A substitute, again.

He corners her in the little vault where she has made her bed, and she backs off against the wall. She is afraid, and she cannot help it.  
 _You've been avoiding me_ , he says, and she holds back a pained laugh.  
 _What?_  
Well, perhaps she has, at the beginning, but it is not really her fault if it has become casual.

He tries to caress her cheek and she flinches, and he holds back his hand. He looks startled.  
 _Was I always so repulsive?_ he asks softly. _Was it always like that for you?_  
She averts her gaze. Her voice feels raw, her throat dry.  
 _No_ , she whispers.  
 _Do not lie to me, Alayne,_ he snarls angrily. _Not you too._  
He looks hurt and sick and so, so _tired_ , and she owes him the truth. For once.  
 _I'm not lying_ , she says.

She has taken off the scarf, and the bruises on her neck have turned to a dirty, greenish yellow after weeks of healing, but are still very present. When he brushes them with his fingers, she winces, but does not shy away from his touch.  
 _He did this_ , he says.  
Not asks, because he _knows_.

She swallows, and his eyes follow the movement and the sliding of her bruised skin over her thin bones and this, _this_ she has missed.

He cradles her face in her hands and crushes his lips to hers.

For the very first time, and she wasn't expecting it of him. People like her are not _kissed_. People like her are _used_. He has been using her for months now. Why the sudden change?  
She remembers the first and only time someone had kissed her. She had been a child still, and it was a stable boy she was fooling around with, and his lips had been wet and clumsy, and she had punched him, because she had not understand.  
She does, now.

Gisborne's eyes are closed and his lips are firm and soft. His tongue seeks entrance and she grants it. Just to see what happens, because she does not know how to kiss back. No one has ever taught her _that_. But she wants to try.  
A good thing that Guy seems to know what he is doing.

He is kissing her as if he _meant_ it.

His stubbles is scratching her skin, her neck is a bit stiff because he is so much taller than her that she has to throw her head back to reach his lips, but it feels _good_ nonetheless, and it amazes her.  
She tentatively strokes his nape, clumsy fingers tangling in his dark hair, and he purrs in delight. His hands go down to her waist and seize her hips and pull her against him, and they rock together in a long, burning wave.  
And then she remembers that he is supposed to kiss Lady Marian. Not _her_.  
Kisses are for lovers, are they not?  
 _Well._  
The poor maiden has no idea _at all_ of _what_ she is missing.

Gisborne steps back, and she nearly growls in frustration. He has made her _want_ this, the bastard, want _more_.  
His eyes are still closed.  
 _I'm sorry,_ he whispers.  
And then he is gone.

Alayne's knees give out and she lets herself fall back on her bedroll and smiles.

 **Thoughts?**

 **French translations:**  
 **Maman: Mummy, mother**  
 **Bonjour: Good morning, hello**  
 **Au revoir: Goodbye**  
 **Merci: Thank you**  
 **A genoux, manants: Kneel, peasants**  
 **Où est l'argent des impôts?: Where is the money from the taxes?**


End file.
